


Kiss Me, Cure Me

by alpha_exodus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Blow Jobs, M/M, Potion Master Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 13:45:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3490538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_exodus/pseuds/alpha_exodus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But when you were gay and in love with your straight best mate, thus was life."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss Me, Cure Me

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the finger-in-the-mouth scene from Kill Your Darlings, because it showed up on my tumblr dashboard in two different forms within twelve hours, and I decided that it must be fate. That, combined with my need to write a best-friends-to-lovers Drarry fic, eventually became this story. Thanks to calypso-mary for the beta.

_Meet me in the third floor alcove at midnight,_ Malfoy’s note said. It gave no reason, and no signature (although Harry could recognize the smarmy git’s handwriting anywhere). He had not shown the note to Ron or Hermione, because the two were nowhere near fond of Malfoy. However, he didn’t see any harm in going. It was the end of their eighth year, and if Malfoy wanted to talk about something, then he would listen. Besides, the blond hadn’t even tried to hex him at all in the past year, and that counted for something, right?

Midnight found him walking quietly toward the alcove, wearing his invisibility cloak (because being cautious couldn’t hurt). Peeking behind the tapestry of Barius the Brave’s lineage and into the dimly lit alcove, he could see Malfoy leaning against the wall. The blond cast a Tempus charm; Harry could hear him sighing impatiently.

Deeming it safe to pull the cloak off, Harry slipped in the alcove.

Malfoy straightened. “Hullo, Potter.”

“Malfoy,” Harry gave a brief nod. “You wanted to see me?”

“Right. I have a request.” Malfoy paused for a moment, picking at the sleeve of his robe.

A moment turned into half a minute. “Well, go on,” Harry prompted finally.

“Let me live with you after we graduate,” Malfoy said, and it was more of a command than a question.

“Er… what?” Harry squinted at him.

“You heard me,” the blond replied, face neutral. He crossed his arms, shifting, the slightest hint of discomfort beginning to show.

“What? No. There’s no way in hell… why would you even ask that?” Harry frowned. Did he think that they had some sort of bond, just because Harry had spoken of his bravery at his trial?

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” Malfoy shrugged, face still infuriatingly expressionless, the same face that Harry had seen all year. Come to think of it—when was the last time Malfoy had smiled, or smirked, or looked angry?

“You don’t want to live with your mum? Or your friends?” Harry questioned.

“Mother is in France, and the language has never been my strong suit. I no longer have friends.” And still, Malfoy didn’t seem to react. It was starting to bother Harry. Should he have talked to Malfoy earlier in the year, or even tried to have a row with him? It looked like the very essence of who Malfoy was had been lost, wiped away with the end of the war. Even when Harry had spoken at the trials, Malfoy’s murmur of gratitude had not been accompanied by a happy expression. Just this, a dull blankness, a void where liveliness had once been.

Harry was struck with the desire to change that, to get a rise out of Malfoy. And the easiest way to elicit emotion from Malfoy was to deny him something that he wanted.

“You don’t seem all that bothered by it,” Harry shook his head, turning to leave. “Go buy a flat somewhere.”

“Wait, Potter!” Malfoy clutched at his sleeve, letting go easily when Harry jerked his arm away. And there, _finally_ , was something other than that dull gaze—Malfoy’s brow was creasing, and a small frown slowly formed on his lips. Malfoy was getting angry. Harry wanted to grin, but he held it back. He didn’t know why this was important to him, seeing Malfoy react. The world just didn’t seem quite right without it.

“What do you expect me to do?” Malfoy asked, his voice almost a growl. “Grimmauld would be mine anyway, if it weren’t for your godfather, and there’s no other place for me to go! The Manor was seized, the accounts are frozen, Aunt Bellatrix’s place was demolished, and there’s barely enough money for Mother’s little flat in France. Do you really think I would come to you if it wasn’t necessary?” Draco exhaled in a large huff, leaning against the wall of the third floor alcove and slumping down until he was sitting on the floor. “I’m fucking desperate,” he whispered, laying his head in his arms.

Harry swallowed, then carefully sat down next to Malfoy. He could feel his innate empathy reacting, the desire to help pooling in his stomach, and he knew before he truly even thought about it that he would have to agree. And not simply because he pitied Malfoy, either—some part of him had missed having the blond in his life, because everyone else practically worshipped him and Malfoy didn’t.

And because seeing Malfoy glare at him had lit a spark inside him that had, for the entire year, been dulled by studying and homework and classes and newspaper headlines proclaiming him the Savior of the Wizarding World. Harry was _bored_. His life was no longer exciting, and after seven years of chasing and being chased by Voldemort, excitement was a must. He needed the feeling of the blood rushing in his veins, the dose of adrenaline that he no longer encountered in his daily life. Even the Auror program, though still attractive, did not seem like it would provide the intensity that Harry craved. He knew already that Malfoy would do exactly that. There would be no normal with the other man around, the one person who had never failed to make his blood boil with emotion.

The war had broken all petty rivalries apart, including theirs. Now, the chance that he could be friends with Malfoy was too tempting to resist.

“All right,” he answered eventually.

Malfoy raised his head, looking tired, but not dull, never dull again. “Really?”

“Really.” Harry felt oddly aware of his heartbeat. He wondered why.

“Good,” Malfoy said, but the smallest little smile appeared on his face.

Harry hoped that they could grow to be good friends, indeed.

- _Five Years Later_ -

“Bloody artifact smugglers!” Harry exclaimed, tossing his Auror cloak into Kreacher’s waiting arms and storming into the living room.

He heard Draco come thumping down the stairs and turned toward him. Draco’s reading glasses were still on, and a large bright green splotch of potion shone on his laboratory robes. “What happened?” Draco asked, pulling off the lightly smoking robes and spelling them into the laundry.

“I’m starting to think that they have a plant somewhere in the Ministry, because they clearly knew what we knew. We were running circles around them the entire day.” He took his glasses off, rubbing a hand over his face and through his hair. “Paperwork’s gonna be a nightmare,” he groaned.

Draco stepped behind him. Before he knew it, Draco’s hands were smoothing over Harry’s back, thumbs pressing into the sore spots and fingers rubbing out the multitude of kinks in his shoulders. Harry relaxed into the touch, the aggravation bleeding out and away with the methodical push of Draco’s hands.

It had taken a long time for him to get used to the little touches that Draco was fond of. Elbow nudges when they were cracking jokes, a squeeze on the shoulder whenever Harry did particularly well at work, an excited tug on his wrist when Draco wanted to show him a new potion in his upstairs converted laboratory, a hand pressed over his mouth when they argued and Draco didn’t feel like listening to him any longer, an arm slung around his shoulders when they posed for pictures. It had become even harder to not react to Draco in an embarrassing way after Harry had fallen slowly, intensely in love with him. But when you were gay, and in love with your straight best mate, thus was life.

He had admitted to himself that he was irrevocably in love three years ago.

Their routines were cemented in stone, now. Harry made the tea, and Draco cooked breakfast. Harry did the laundry, but Draco picked out new clothes for both of them (“Your fashion sense is atrocious, Harry.”) Draco had slowly stopped bringing girls over, claiming that it disrupted the sense of “home” that radiated from 12 Grimmauld Place. The small, jealous space in Harry’s heart had rejoiced at that, but he hadn’t pressed the point further. He had suggested that they do something fun together instead, and now Saturday nights were Muggle movie nights.

Routines, routines, except that it was just as Harry had thought it would be—no day was the same with Draco around, whether it was little touches at his back or a screaming row over who had last done the washing up. Draco was his drug and his cure all at once, because he calmed him like no one else could, but he provided the fire in his life, the necessary change from the mundane. The day when Draco had asked to live with him, Harry had wanted to force emotion into the other man. Now, Draco paid him back in tenfold, every single day. Harry sometimes feared that without Draco, he might have wasted away to nothing.

Draco’s hands were working on his lower back, now, and he rolled his shoulders, letting out a contented sigh. “I’m never going to ask where you learned how to do this,” he murmured.

Draco snickered. “I don’t think you want to know.” He stopped abruptly, making off toward the staircase again.

“Where are you going?” Harry protested, unfastening his tie.

“I’m ordering takeout!” came Draco’s muffled response. A wave of affection fluttered through Harry, because Draco always did this when Harry had ugly days at work.

He grinned widely and went upstairs to change.

-X-

“I’m going to work on the potion for a bit tomorrow,” Draco said, dipping his finger into the leftover curry sauce and sucking it into his mouth. Harry watched avidly and pretended he wasn’t.

“Will you be a long time?” Harry asked eventually. “It’s your turn to pick the movie tomorrow night.”

Draco raised his eyebrows, pretending to be shocked. “Harry, I never! When have I ever worked so long on a Saturday that I’ve missed movie night?”

Harry snorted. “The past three weeks, if you don’t remember. Why, Draco, I think your memory is failing,” he jested, snatching his curry out of Draco’s reach as Draco tried to lean over and get at his leftovers.

Draco relented, settling for flicking his scalp. “I know, I know. I’m so close to this breakthrough, though, I can feel it,” he gestured, hands clenching into fists.

The potion. Draco’s masterpiece. He hadn’t named it yet, had said that he wouldn’t name it until he was finished, but he had been working on it since they had put together his laboratory. It was one of the first things that made Harry love him, because when Draco had asked if Harry had an idea for a new, revolutionary potion, Harry had immediately blurted out that he would want a cure for lycanthropy, and Draco had latched onto it, making it his goal ever since. He had said that it was because Fenrir had scared the shite out of him during the war, but Harry thought that it was probably that combined with a need for repentance, and maybe just a little bit because he wanted to do something for Harry.

Now that Draco had a full time job making Healing potions for St. Mungo’s, he had relegated working on the cure to weekends. Sometimes Harry watched, and loved him the more for it, for his long fingers turning pages as he researched and his tongue sticking out as he tried another solution.

“How do you know if it’s the cure?” Harry had asked, once.

“I’m not sure. But this isn’t it,” Draco had replied, Vanishing yet another attempt.

Flicking a stasis charm over his curry, Harry called for Kreacher, who bowed as he took their dishes. He was frailer than ever, now, but he still insisted on doing little tasks for his Master, and so Harry let him.

“I think I’ll go visit Ron and ‘Mione, then,” Harry decided, standing up. “They’ve been asking me for breakfast for ages.”

Draco stood as well, lithe body stretching and then relaxing. “See you for movie night, then?” he asked, although absent-mindedness pervaded his tone, and Harry knew without looking that he was preoccupied, thinking about the potion.

“See you then.”

-X-

A relaxing morning with his two other best friends turned into a busy afternoon. Hermione had just given birth a few months ago, and little Rosie had turned Ron and Hermione’s life upside down—in a good way, of course.

At one point, Hermione cornered him alone for a moment, as she always did. “How’s Draco?” she asked, setting Rose down in the crib for a nap.

“Brilliant,” Harry shrugged. “Working on the potion again. Everything’s good.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. “Really now?” she wheedled.

“I’m fine, Hermione, really,” he protested. Hermione sighed, walking over and giving him a warm hug.

“All right, Harry,” she relented, just as she did every time they had this conversation. He returned her embrace, heartbeat slowing back down from where it had briefly quickened.

-X-

When Harry Apparated back home, the first thing he heard after walking inside was Draco’s voice, muffled through the ceiling. “Harry, Harry!” he heard him shout.

His blood ran cold. Was Draco hurt? Fuck—he raced up the stairs and around the corner, slamming open the door to Draco’s lab.

Draco was standing in front of an unlit cauldron, and he looked perfectly fine. Harry felt an enormous swell of relief. “What is it?” he asked, trying to catch his breath.

“Harry,” Draco said again, not even turning around, but the utter joy leaking from his voice was enough to bring Harry closer.

He peered in the cauldron and gasped. Inside was a potion of the most pure white that he had ever seen. It smelled of innocence, somehow, and little bubbles skimmed beneath the surface, even without a fire under it. “Draco… Is this…”

Draco finally turned to him, and nodded, his face brightening into a grin. His eyes were watering, just a little, and Harry pretended not to notice. “I think… I think I did it, Harry. I think this is it…!” His breaths were uneven, and he looked surprised and ecstatic, all at once.

“I’ll Floo Bill,” Harry breathed—Bill had promised to try the cure when Draco found it—and then Harry was grinning as well.

Draco laughed with joy, pulling Harry into a fierce hug. “Yes, Harry, go get him, I have to know—“ his face crumpled slightly. “What if… what if I’m wrong? What if this doesn’t work?”

Harry shook his head firmly. “It’ll work. Don’t worry. It’ll work,” he promised, and then he was racing downstairs to the fireplace in the kitchen and Flooing Shell Cottage.

Bill came quickly, along with Fleur, and Harry practically ran back up the stairs. There was a chair in the lab, now, and Draco was spelling the potion into a vial with shaky hands.

“If this doesn’t work,” Draco started. He gulped, and Harry wanted so badly to hug him again, but he pushed the urge away. “If this doesn’t work, I have a bezoar right here, and several antidotes. If those don’t help, I have a Portkey to Mungo’s. Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked Bill, voice low and serious.

“Of course, Draco,” Bill smiled. “I agreed to it already, didn’t I?” He held his hand out for the vial, then allowed Fleur to push him toward the chair, sitting easily. “To Draco,” he held up the vial, toasting an imaginary party of fellow drinkers. He drank the potion.

They waited.

…

…

…

All of a sudden, Bill’s scars began to ripple and bubble. It looked grotesque, but Bill didn’t flinch; Harry only hoped that it didn’t hurt. The angry redness slowly seeped out of the scars, and then it was over, and Bill was left with barely a mark—just three thin lines, a mark of another life, one that no longer belonged here.

It had worked.

-X-

“We should celebrate,” Harry suggested after Bill and Fleur had left, smiling at each other like newlyweds.

Draco grinned at him slyly. “Do you trust me?”

Harry narrowed his eyes at him, because that was the tone Draco used when he was trying to convince Harry to do something that he didn’t want to do. But, oh, fuck it, tonight was Draco’s night—Harry should, would do anything for him. “Sure,” he replied.

“Brilliant,” Draco said. “Go get dressed. Wear the tight jeans and the maroon button-down you wore under your robes at Ron and Hermione’s wedding,” he instructed and then bloody _winked_ at him ( _ohgodohgod_ ).

Harry hastened to comply, almost numb with happiness, but it took him a moment to figure out what Draco had meant by maroon (all of the red ones looked the same, really). By the time he was ready, Draco was already at the door. Harry took a moment to appreciate what the blond was wearing—his own pair of black, tight jeans, and a short-sleeved slim fitting dress shirt in an icy blue.

“Hang on,” Draco walked toward him, nimble fingers reaching toward his neck and undoing one, two, three buttons. “Perfect,” he grinned, and then it hit Harry.

They were going clubbing, weren’t they?

Harry _hated_ clubbing, he really did. At Muggle clubs, the women seemed to paw all over him, and at Wizarding clubs, _everyone_ seemed to paw all over him.

Draco was watching him pensively, waiting for Harry to say something—he knew that Harry had figured out where they were going, of course. Draco, who was always saying that Harry should get out more, but who had stopped going out himself when he realized the extent of Harry’s dislike for it. Draco, who had just finished the cure for lycanthropy, all because Harry had suggested it. Draco, whom Harry was so far in love with that the idea of not being near Draco had ceased to exist in his mind.

What was one night of people pestering him, so that Draco could have fun? “Come on,” he said, pushing a smile onto his face, and Draco’s answering grin was enough to make up for whatever was going to happen that night.

They left Grimmauld, and Draco gripped Harry’s wrist, Side Alonging them into an alleyway.

“Are we still in London?” Harry asked, and Draco nodded. “Not Wizarding, though,” he assured him, and then he was pulling Harry to the club door. They were admitted so quickly that Harry didn’t even get a chance to read the name of the club.

So when Harry stepped in and immediately realized that all of the patrons were men, his jaw dropped open in shock. “Draco… is this a gay bar?” he asked, speaking just loudly enough to be heard over the pounding bass.

“Yep,” Draco grinned.

“But… you’re straight!” Harry said, brow creasing.

“I’m aware, Harry. That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy myself—there’s alcohol and dancing, after all. You wouldn’t have enjoyed yourself anywhere else, I’m sure, so this was the obvious choice,” Draco explained. Ah, so it was for Harry.

He was pretty sure that he was falling in love with Draco all over again.

“But, Harry—promise me you’ll have fun? Get drunk, dance, pull some guys—we’re still young! Think about something other than work, for once. I mean, look at them,” Draco waggled his eyebrows. “Most of them are halfway naked already. Okay, Harry?”

Harry was caught in a rush of feelings, but he nodded his agreement. “All right,” he replied, and then insisted on buying the first round.

The night went by in a whirl. Harry did get drunk, and he did dance, though he didn’t pull any men—every time he considered it, his eyes floated over to Draco, whose hair always seemed to catch the light whenever Harry looked for him.

That wasn’t to say that he didn’t look at the other men there. He did have to admit that this was fun, because he didn’t feel out of place staring at the mass of masculine bodies, all in various stages of undress.

When the point came where Harry was too drunk to dance, he staggered over to one of the couches that lined the walls, instinctively looking for Draco. Ah, there he was—he raised a hand and waved at him eagerly, and Draco saw him, grinned at him, coming closer, somehow remaining graceful even though Harry was pretty sure Draco had drank more than Harry had.

“’Lo, Harry!” Draco said, plopping down on the couch and laughing. “I’m a bit drunk.”

“Me… me, too,” Harry nodded. “S’nice. Feels warm.”

“Should drink some water…” Draco murmured, but didn’t bother to do anything about it.

They watched the men on the dance floor for a few minutes, and Harry tried to think about how much he wanted Draco.

“Did you have fun?” Draco asked, squeezing Harry’s elbow.

“Mhmm!” Harry agreed emphatically. “Yeah, more fun than I’ve had. For a long time. ‘Cept movie night, I like movie night,” he nodded seriously.

Draco laughed again, and Harry watched openly, joy bubbling in his stomach. Draco caught his eye, and Harry didn’t look away, so he was able to watch when Draco grinned at him, and then slowly, slowly leaned over, putting his head in Harry’s lap.

Time seemed to stop for a second. There was the bass, it was pounding through his body from the speakers on the walls. And there was Draco, and his head was in his lap.

If Harry had been any less inebriated, he might have fled. Instead, he kept looking at Draco, because honestly, he could just blame it on the alcohol in the morning.

“’M sleepy,” Draco murmured, pulling his legs up onto the couch.

“Mm,” Harry hummed in reply.

Draco’s hair was so pretty. Harry loved his hair—after Draco had stopped slicking it back like he did in school, he had let it grow to his eyebrows, though never longer than that. He wanted to touch his hair.

So, he did. He slid his fingers into the smooth, blond locks, taking care not to squeeze too tightly. Harry had touched his hair before, but only in passing. It was just as soft as he had imagined.

Draco turned his head and looked up at him, and Harry’s hand was on Draco’s cheek, now. He bit his lip. Draco’s lips were parted, and if he shifted his hand just a little, his finger would almost be in Draco’s mouth.

Closer, closer, he shifted his hand, and then Draco turned his head further and took Harry’s finger into his mouth.

It felt soft at first, as though it had only been an accident, but then Draco was sucking his finger and looking right at Harry ( _so, so hot)._ Harry’s mouth fell open, but he closed it again, feeling the urge to moan and quelling it with tightened lips. He curled his finger slightly, sliding it in further, and the gentle, wet pressure increased.

Draco rolled over onto his other side, keeping his head somehow steady, and Harry could feel Draco’s tongue flicking against his fingertip. Harry was hard, painfully hard. And, fuck, he realized, Draco could probably see his erection now. He could blame it on the club, though, on all the half-naked men. Hopefully, Draco wouldn’t see through the excuse.

The pressure released from his finger, and Harry pulled it away, because oh Merlin, Draco was staring at his crotch. His face was right next to it, he could probably smell Harry’s arousal…

Draco was grinning. Why was he grinning? And his head was moving further up Harry’s thigh. Harry slid his hand back into Draco’s hair, not entirely sure what was going on, not sure if he was supposed to be enjoying this or if it was wrong because they were both drunk out of their minds.

And then Draco’s eyelids fluttered slightly, and he pressed his lips against Harry’s jeans, right over his cock.

Harry gasped sharply, hand tensing involuntarily against Draco’s scalp. “Draco?” he asked, but Draco was no longer looking at him, because he was mouthing his cock instead.

“Fuck…” Harry murmured. He wanted—he _wanted_.

Sliding his hand under Draco’s head, he pulled Draco up and kissed him. He missed his mouth, hitting his cheek instead, but Draco sat up and pulled himself into Harry’s lap and kissed him right back.

Of all the kisses Harry had imagined, they had never been like this. He could taste the whiskey on Draco’s breath, and Draco was slow, the push of his lips almost hesitant. Wondering, asking, maybe? Harry did his best to answer, sliding his hands under Draco’s shirt, trying to show the _want_ with every move of his body. Draco felt perfect, was perfect, tongue pressing into Harry’s mouth, now.

He was kissing Draco. In public, in a club. It didn’t matter. They were _kissing_.

Really, though, he’d rather be at home. Wondering if Draco had thought to bring it along, he felt along Draco’s thigh until he found a small bump in his pocket—there.

Draco pulled away from him, fumbling for his pocket because the angle was better. He was grinning again, and Harry couldn’t help smiling back. Even if it was just for now, Draco was in his lap, and they had just made out.

Draco pressed the button against Harry’s palm, clasping their fingers together and whispering the word that would activate the Portkey and take them home.

They landed in the entryway, and Harry almost sank to his knees in front of Draco, except that Draco shook his head.

“Bed,” Draco murmured, and so they stumbled up the stairs.

Harry’s room was closest. Draco pressed him against the door, kissed his face, kissed his lips, and then twisted the handle and pushed Harry into the room.

“Clothes off, clothes off—fuck, what’s the laundry spell, I can’t remember,” Draco cursed, and Harry’s heart stuttered violently as he pulled his wand out and cast it, sending their clothes to the laundry room. Then it was skin on skin, Draco’s lips against his neck.

Harry felt light-headed. He backed up until he felt the bed against the backs of his knees, letting himself fall and pulling Draco with him. Draco’s weight was firm, reassuring, but as soon as they had laid down, Draco was pulling away, sliding down his body, placing random kisses down his chest and stomach and—

Draco’s mouth was around his cock.

Harry moaned. “Dra… Draco,” he managed to say, and then words became too much for him.

He pushed himself up onto wobbly shoulders, wanting to watch, knowing he wasn’t going to last. Seeing Draco’s mouth stretched around him and the little flick of Draco’s eyes up to Harry’s face was almost enough to push him over the edge.

“Draco, close, I’m close,” Harry warned. Draco pulled off of him, slowly, long fingers taking the place of his mouth, stroking him quickly. He grinned at him, with the smallest tinge of a smirk.

“Y’know, Harry, I’ve never given a blowjob before.”

“Oh, _fuck_ , Draco—”

Harry came.

Draco kept stroking until it was too much and Harry had to pull his hand away. He wanted to kiss him again, and so he did, and it was glorious.

“Touch me, Harry,” Draco mewled between kisses, laying down beside him, and Harry’s body gave a belated shudder as he slid his hand down to Draco’s cock.

They kissed and kissed, and Harry’s mouth was sore from the slight stubble on Draco’s chin. It wasn’t long until Draco’s orgasm hit, and he drank in the sight of his lithe, slim body shaking with pleasure.

“Harry…” Draco breathed, and he grinned when Harry gasped in response. “Harry, mm, that was good. ‘M tired. Let’s go to bed,” he tugged at Harry’s arm.

A quick cleaning charm to remove the stickiness, and then Harry was, for the first time, falling asleep in Draco’s arms.

-X-

Harry woke up to a pounding headache, a sense of guilt, and a warm body next to him. The headache, he understood, but where was the guilt coming from? They had gone clubbing, and danced, and—oh.

Draco must have already been awake, because when Harry tensed, Draco pulled him closer. “Morning,” he murmured.

Harry wasn’t sure what to say, so he settled for moaning in discomfort. “Oww…”

“Ah, right, hang on— _Accio_ hangover potion,” Draco cast softly. It sailed through the air and into Draco’s hand, and Harry took it gratefully, sitting up to drink it.

They were both still naked, he realized. He flushed as the potion worked its way through his body, wanting to look at Draco but not sure if he was still allowed. They had been drunk, Draco even more-so than he, so it was probably a one-time thing…

“Harry. Look at me,” Draco said, and then shoved the sheets down and away.

Harry couldn’t help it—his eyes flew to Draco’s body, to his crotch. It was the first time he had seen him naked, sober, and Draco was so beautiful, all light muscles and pale skin. His breath hitched in his throat.

“You’re… you’re straight,” Harry said, confused but laying back down next to Draco all the same.

“Yeah,” Draco said, and he could hear him swallow. “But I think… that I can be straight, and still be in love with you.”

Harry froze. Draco… was in love with him? He had just said it. Had he misheard? He didn’t think so. Draco loved him.

He let the thought sink into his body, suddenly afraid to meet Draco’s eyes. But Draco’s hand found his chin, lifted his head up so that Draco’s face was right there.

“Are you… okay? If you don’t want… it’s fine, but I thought…” Draco was saying, and Harry shook his head quickly.

“I love you,” he blurted out, trembling with the strength of it all. “So much, I love you…”

Draco kissed him again, and the world went fuzzy and warm.

-X-

“I wish you had told me before,” Harry murmured, a while later. “You knew, right? That I loved you. It was probably obvious,” he flushed slightly.

Draco slid his hand over Harry’s hip, drawing small, aimless designs with his fingertips. “I wanted to, but… this is silly, but I wanted to finish the potion first,” he admitted. “I wanted to do something for you, so you’d forgive me for… everything. I wanted to cure someone that I had hurt,” he finished quietly.

Harry’s brow creased. “I forgave you ages ago,” he said honestly. “And you… you cured _me_.”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked, squeezing his hip.

“I needed… something more. And that something ended up being you.”

Draco’s lips pulled into a grin, and then Harry was once again kissing his best mate, as he would for decades to come.


End file.
